Memory Makes Us
by CornishGirl
Summary: S12 Ep 11, "Regarding Dean." [Missing Scene] Before the mirror, staring at the stranger, Dean knew he was losing himself. He'd listened to Sam give him The Talk, but he couldn't *feel* the truth of the words. Anymore than he could *feel* the truth of the words Rowena had said, when she told him what he was. Because that wasn't him. Was it?


**Memory Makes Us**

* * *

 _Memory makes us. If we couldn't recall the who, what, where, and when of our everyday lives, we wouldn't be able to function. -Psychology Today_

* * *

The thumbs-up gesture, as was the act of shooting, is a reflex, sheer muscle memory. And then that reflex dies as he looks first to the body on the stairs, the male witch asprawl across the staircase landing. The glasses are askew but remain upon the face, though that face now lacks an eye because of the bullet hole punched through it.

The bullet from the gun in his hand.

The red-headed witch, Rowena, had said, _'What a gift not to recall the things you've done!'_

And he, baffled, had asked, _'What have I done?'_

To which she replied, _'You're a killer, Dean Winchester.'_

He stares at the body. At the _dead body._

And then turns, looks at the other. At the female witch, with the back of her head blown off.

 _' You're a killer, Dean Winchester.'_

His hands begin to tremble. He drops the gun, hears it land; hears Rowena's question, and Sam's, but he has no answer. He has no words.

The air escapes his lungs on a stuttered series of breathy grunts.

He is in shock. He is _shattered._

He staggers sideways, finds purchase against a wall. It is the only reason he remains standing. Even then, he wants to slide down, to surrender to the weakness of his knees. He flattens both hands against the wall, applying the rigid pressure of skin and muscle so he doesn't collapse.

And then Sam is there, the insanely tall man whose name he knows only because Sam has claimed it his. And says his is Dean. Dean Winchester.

 _' You're a killer, Dean Winchester.'_

He lets Sam grip one bicep, because he thinks the man may be sturdier than the wall. Sam holds him there, saying his name, asking questions, but all Dean can do is stare at the only living witch in the room. Rowena.

"You're right," he blurts, and his voice trembles just as the rest of him does. With effort he steadies it, steadies himself, stares hard at the woman. "I am . . . I am what you said."

She is puzzled. "What did I say?"

But Sam is angry. "What did you _say?"_

Dean swallows heavily, sucks in a breath, gusts it out as he also gusts out the words. "I'm a killer."

"Ahh," Rowena says.

"Ohh," says Sam, and his tone is one of discovery. "Dean . . . " His hand slips upward from bicep to Dean's shoulder, then to the back of his neck. He grips briefly in a way that is affectionate, and strengthening, and _family._

That hand upon his neck is saying _'It's okay,'_ and _'You're okay,'_ and _'We're okay.'_

Rowena's expression is odd, he thinks. He doesn't recognize it, yet somehow knows it's alien to her face. But it passes quickly as she lifts her head, looks down her nose, and smiles with carmined lips stretched thin. "That you are," she says. "And you're bloody good at it."

"Stop it!" Sam snaps, then calms his tone as if something is at risk. "You can fix this. You _will_ fix this."

Dean shakes his head. "There's no fixing _that._ " He looks beyond the bulk of his brother, sees the male witch's body; looks again at the female's body. "You told me this is what we do, that it's necessary, and I get that . . . but this—this is real. And I don't remember it. I don't remember _me_." He locks eyes with Rowena. "You said it was a gift not to recall the things I've done."

She flicks a brief glance at Sam. "And so it would be, were you willin' to retire. To give up your— _mission_." The snap of disgust was palpable. "But you're the sum of your life experiences, Dean Winchester. There's no goin' back. And I read those books, those Carver Edlund books no better than _dime novel trash_ , and unless your angel sends the two of you back to that house in Lawrence in 1983, where Mary Winchester _failed_ her sons, you'll never be anything else." She pauses. "Except dead."

He looks from her to the man who stands so close. Looks into the worried eyes. "Who are y—?"

But he breaks it off, because his gut tells him that to ask this man who he is, again, will somehow break his heart.

Rowena says, "Come along, then. I'll see to it." When he doesn't move, something flickers in her eyes. "The book's upstairs. You may not be a Scot, but you're a braw laddie, Dean Winchester, and not afraid of a wee bit of spell castin.'"

He doesn't know why; he doesn't know _her_ , but something tells him to trust her, to go with her. And as he steps away to do so, he pauses. Glances back at the stranger who claims to be his brother.

That man, and the glow of hope in his eyes, is why Dean goes.

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 **~ end ~**

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 _A/N: There were portions of this episode I found profoundly moving, particularly the bathroom scene with Dean before the mirror trying so desperately to hang onto the people he loved even as he lost the memories of them; and Sam saying that watching Dean losing himself was worse than seeing him die. I really, really, *really* wish the writer/s explored a little more of this angst, this horror, for both boys, but of course the scripts are truncated by commercials. 8-(_

 _While the thumbs-up gesture and triumphant smile were classic Dean, at that moment, according to the script, he *wasn't* truly Dean. So I decided to play with this concept just a tad more._

 _(RL got in the way and I haven't written any SPN fics for quite some time. Please let me know what you think.)_


End file.
